


Watch me in the Dirt

by orphan_account



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Cato is not a nice person, M/M, Non-Consensual, seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-02
Updated: 2014-12-02
Packaged: 2018-02-27 22:10:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2708522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cato scoffed, stepping forward and planting a boot on Peeta’s chest, pushing him down until he was lying flat on his back, “Because fear is stronger than love,” he said, “And you’re afraid to die, just like the rest of them.”</p><p>[AKA, the one where Cato exerts some force on an injured Peeta, (supposedly) in the name of finding out where Katniss has gotten to. Cato/Peeta, live on the Hunger Games.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Watch me in the Dirt

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for a prompt on the hunger games kink meme. When I went there today in a fit of nostalgia, I found the whole thing deleted and purged. Hence, I am reposting here! This was written sometime around the summer of 2011.
> 
> Warning: There is violence and rape in this fic.

Cato was a force to be reckoned with, hitting Peeta so hard that it lifted him off his feet and punched the breath right out of him. He fell to the ground, wheezing, eyes wildly searching the forest around them, hoping that Katniss got away. He had passed out not long after he’d gotten the cut on his leg, and he hoped she’d stumbled far enough away before collapsing that she wasn’t in danger.

“So all along you were just planning to keep us away from her, were you?” accused Cato, rubbing at the sting beneath his eye, his upper lip curled and teeth bared. Peeta sat up as best he could, still dizzy from his own stings, despite the hours that had passed. He wanted to get up, to run as fast as he could in the opposite direction, but the pain emanating from his leg was excruciating and he could barely look at the gaping wound still oozing blood and clear fluid, let alone run. 

“You know I love her, so I’m not sure why you even believed me in the first place,” he said, voice steady despite the fear gripping his heart and squeezing tightly.

Cato scoffed, stepping forward and planting a boot on Peeta’s chest, pushing him down until he was lying flat on his back, “Because fear is stronger than love,” he said, “And you’re afraid to die, just like the rest of them.”

“Clearly you’ve never loved anyone then,” said Peeta, and curled a hand around Cato’s ankle, yanking it sideways, hard, pulling him off-balance and causing him to go crashing to the ground. Not for the first time, Peeta thanked his lucky stars that he had spent most of his life hefting flour around, as Cato, probably still woozy from the tracker-jacker stings, moaned on the ground. Wriggling out from under him, Peeta pulled himself to his feet with nothing but pure determination, nearly screaming in pain as it pulled at his deep leg wound. He hobbled away, fully aware that even if Cato had been dazed by the fall, he would catch up. This was nothing more than a last ditch attempt to get away. A few more seconds alive could mean all the difference. Someone could come swinging out of the bushes, killing Cato. Maybe Katniss was in a tree high above him, bow in hand, arrow drawn.

“Fuck you!” roared Cato, scrambling off the ground and tearing after him. Maybe not, thought Peeta as his face connected with the ground. Cato was heavy on his back, but he was without his weapon, so Peeta rolled to the side as best he could, trying to turn to face his assailant. His elbow caught Cato in the side of the head, stunning him for a second and allowing Peeta to flip onto his back and smash his fist into Cato’s cheek. Cato caught his fist when he tried again, pinning it to the ground. Peeta scrabbled, lashing out with every part of his limbs that he could manage, not considerate of his dignity when it meant life and death. He nearly got out of Cato’s grip again but failed when the larger man grabbed at his leg, brushing over the wound and sending white hot sparks of pain racing up his body.

Peeta went still, holding his breath. He could taste blood in his mouth from where he’d bitten through his lip. Cato laughed breathily, perhaps winded from the tussle, “I see I got you good, huh?” Peeta didn’t say anything, lying on his side under Cato, whose big hand spanned his thigh just below the gash. Cato’s other hand was clutching his collar, jacket and shirt scrunched up into his hand. He let go of the material, his hand moving to Peeta’s shoulder and pushing at it until he was flat on his back. 

He lay still, his leg still screaming from the barest of touches. Cato loomed over him, all his weight on his knees and his hand shoving down on Peeta’s sternum, keeping him pinned to the ground. Curling around, Cato tipped his head to look at the wound. Peeta tried to kick at him with his good leg, but the hand on his thigh tightened in warning, so he laid it back down, hoping that a moment would come where the position they were in would be to his advantage. The bigger boy was peering curiously at the wound, his tongue peeking out to moisten his lips, as if this was something mouth-watering that he was looking at, not a ragged gash on Peeta’s leg. 

Carefully, almost delicately, Cato moved his hand further up Peeta’s thigh, pulling aside the material of his pants to get a better look. “I can see the bone,” he announced, with some amount of glee colouring his voice, and Peeta considered vomiting. He didn’t, afraid of choking on it. Wouldn’t that be a way to die? Live on camera, choking to death on your own vomit? Peeta wasn’t interested in glory in the arena, but there was a limit to how ungracefully he was prepared to go. “You know,” said Cato, “If you look at it the right way, it’s almost _pretty_. The way the flesh parted where my sword sliced through you.”

Unsure of where this was going, Peeta sucked in a shaky breath, fingers ghosting over the dirt, looking for a branch, a rock, _anything_ that could help him. There was nothing. So he reached out his hand, ready to grip Cato by the hair, yank his head to the side, knee him in the face with his right leg. Then Cato stuck his dirty fingers right into the gaping wound on his thigh. All thoughts of escape forgotten, the world suddenly whited out into a pain filled haze. He tipped his head backwards into the dirt, blonde hair falling off of his forehead and fanning out on the ground, arched his back and _howled._

Cato’s hand was over his mouth, pressing over his mouth and half-blocking the air to his nose. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see, couldn’t think. It _hurt_. It hurt in a way he’d never felt before, all-encompassing, blinding in its intensity. His limbs were twitching in the dirt, as if he’d been electrified, convulsing without his permission. When finally it subsided enough that he was aware again, he was dizzy, short of breath and Cato was chuckling so lowly he could barely hear it. “Shhh,” he whispered next to his ear, conspiratorially, “Don’t scream so loudly! There are killers in these woods. We wouldn’t want them to find us.” 

He peeled his hand away from Peeta’s mouth and it was slick with saliva and blood. He wiped it down the front of Peeta’s shirt, staring blatantly at the way it smeared on the thin material. “So,” he said, “Where will she go next?”

“Who?” gasped Peeta, but Cato’s response was to scrape his thumb along the edge of the gash, and this time Peeta really did almost throw up. “I don’t know!” he moaned, retching, his fingers clutching at Cato’s jacket as if he could drag him off while his vision was still spotty from pain. 

Cato slapped his hands off and growled, wonder gone from his face and voice, “Let’s be honest, Peeta, there are only two other threats to me in this game. One is Thresh. The other is your girlfriend. And you saw her, she took Glimmer’s bow. At any moment, she could shoot me in the eye, and I don’t like those odds. So you know her best – where would she be headed?”

“Uhh,” began Peeta, thinking carefully about where best to redirect Cato so that we was as far away from Katniss as possible, quiet deliberation interrupted when Cato slapped him harshly across the face. “Don’t lie!” he snarled, backhanding him for good measure, “I’ll know.”

“I’m sure whatever I tell you, you’ll think it’s a lie, and it probably will be,” said Peeta, “You should probably just kill me and get it over with.”

“I’m sure that if I hurt you enough, you’ll tell me what it is I want to know. Everyone always does.” Cato said it as if he had experience, and this more than anything made Peeta afraid. Nevertheless, there were things more important than his own life, so he set his face into a firm line, and spat, “Never!” and waited for the crack of his neck that would end his life. He wasn’t going to be able to get away from Cato, not with his leg split open and the bigger boy atop him. The best he could hope for was Katniss having gotten far enough away, and having recovered enough from the stings to shoot Cato before he got to her. That was the beauty of bows and arrows – they were long distance weapons.

But Cato didn’t snap his neck. He merely shifted his position, sitting up straighter and looking down his nose at his captive. He didn’t look angry, merely intent, eyes wide and intense. His hand, still on Peeta’s sternum, dug into his shirt, twisting it tightly and yanking him upwards to slam his face into his waiting fist. Peeta flopped back to the ground with a thud, blood creeping out of his nose and slowly crawling down the side of his face. 

Blinking to clear the stars from his eyes, Peeta twisted when Cato tried to do it again and they tussled until Cato finally caught Peeta on the temple hard enough to stun him. He sat atop him, staring down at his prey, grin spread from ear to ear across his face. Peeta was suddenly aware that his shirt had ridden up as they had rolled around, and he tried to tug it down with a free hand, feeling vulnerable. Cato squeezed his leg and he went rigid, allowing the other boy to remove his hand from his shirt, pushing it to the ground at his side. “You know,” said Cato thoughtfully, “I enjoy fighting. Well, that might even be an understatement. I _love_ fighting. I love the Hunger Games. This right here? Well, it’s a dream come true.”

Peeta said nothing, staring up at Cato with an icy expression frozen onto his face. “And,” said Cato, “You’re the most fun I’ve had yet. Killing everyone else was boring, but you fight back. I like that. So I think I’ll take my time with you – really _savour_ it. This is the only time in my life where killing someone won’t only be okay, it’ll be worshipped as an act of valour and skill.” He laughed, bright white teeth glinting in the bright afternoon sun that fell, dappled, through the trees. He was insane, Peeta thought. A chill went down his spine, “But before I get to it, I’d like to show you my appreciation for such a good time, lover boy. And perhaps it’ll help you think about where your girlfriend might be. If you get any bright ideas, be sure to let me know.”

“What are you doing?” asked Peeta, as Cato shifted positions, keeping his hand near enough to Peeta’s injury to send sparks of white across his vision. The blood had soaked into his pants, staining them an ugly shade of brownish-red, and it was still damp, despite obtaining the wound some hours ago. “What are you doing?!” he demanded again as Cato forced him onto his stomach, unable to stop the rising note of panic in his voice. His leg screamed as the gash was pressed against the ground. 

Cato laughed, yanking at Peeta’s belt, “You’re not _that_ naive, are you, baker’s boy?”

“We’re on camera,” hissed Peeta, “You know that the whole world is watching us right now.”

“Smile,” said Cato, “You might get a present from above if you put on a good enough show!”

“No!” said Peeta, and tried to kick Cato off. It was no use. He was hungry, thirsty, tired, and had bled out half of his blood supply all over the ground earlier. There were the huge tracker jacker welts still burning on his chest and the venom still casting a haze over his thoughts. “You want the world to see you do this?”

“The world’s going to enjoy it. They love a little violence, and this is something new. No-one’s ever fucked someone before killing them, though they’ve certainly come close. Think: they’ll be talking about the 74th for decades to come, and I’ll be remembered as the guy strong enough to take what he wanted and really enjoy the moment,” he got Peeta’s belt undone and started dragging his pants down. When Peeta’s struggles became too pronounced, Cato took the time to more or less strip off Peeta’s jacket, wrapping it around his captive’s arms and pushing them to the ground over his head. He pushed up his undershirt as well, exposing the mess that Peeta’s back had become through the duration of the games.

“Your family! What will they think?!” gasped Peeta as Cato fully yanked down his pants, shoving his legs apart so that he could kneel between them. Peeta’s attempts to curl in on himself, to hide what was going on were thwarted by the big, scarred hands holding him in place, one pushing down between his shoulder blades and the other looped around his hips, holding him so that his ass was in the air and his face was pressed into the dirt. 

“They’ll enjoy watching, just like everyone else,” said Cato, and laughed, retrieving one hand to undo his own clothes. Peeta tried to take the opportunity to make a move, but when he tensed his muscles, his leg began seizing and he was forced to relax it in an attempt to stop the convulsions. “That doesn’t look good,” said the bigger boy as he rasped down the zipper on his own pants. He sounded amused, like he was having fun, and Peeta felt moisture squeeze out of the corners of his eyes when he screwed them shut. 

He pulled his arms back, getting them close enough to his face that he could brace himself and stop his face from being slammed into the dirt, and he wondered what he looked like. His stomach felt like ice as he considered that his parents, his older brothers, his friends back home would be watching this right now. Thankfully, he would never have to endure their reactions as he wouldn’t be making it out of the games, but he worried about what they might think of him once he was gone. For all of his noble ideals about making sure that the people at home knew that the games hadn’t changed him, his final act was going to be getting raped by another, stronger competitor. He hoped that if...when Katniss won, she wouldn’t think less of him when she found out. That she’d know that he had only wanted to protect her and that he’d tried his best to get away.

“Stop watching,” he mumbled, talking to her, as if she was already watching the recaps, of which this scene would certainly be a part.

“What was that?” asked Cato, who was arranging them to better line up.

“Stop watching!” exclaimed Peeta, now talking to everyone in Panem, “Please, if you hold any shadow of respect for me as a human being, don’t watch this!”

Cato laughed and pushed forward. Peeta gritted his teeth so hard that his jaw creaked in protest, curling his fists in the jacket surrounding them. It hurt, though the searing pain still jolting through his leg still overshadowed it, to a degree. They were different types of pain, and Peeta held his breath briefly and shut his eyes in an attempt to get them under control. “See,” Cato said, followed by a grunt of satisfaction as he bottomed out, “Already hard. The fight did it for me.”

“You’re fucked up,” said Peeta, voice more ragged than he’d like.

“I know,” said Cato, pulling out and then pushing in again, hard, “And I love it. So will our loyal viewers.”

Peeta didn’t say anything, pulling his hands back even further, able to hide half of his face in his jacket. Shifting his jaw forward, he bit on the material to keep himself from screaming as Cato forced him to rock forward with every thrust, aggravating his leg and shoving his face towards the ground. “Bet you were a virgin,” said Cato, “you’re so tight.”

Again, Peeta said nothing, but Cato continued, voice rough, “In fact, I’d wager you were a virgin in every way. You’re in love with Katniss and I’d bet the ice queen never let you fuck her.”

“Shut up!” said Peeta, “If you’re going to fuck me, just do it, but keep your mouth shut about her.”

Cato laughed and didn’t say anything else, pounding in and out as though he hadn’t just spent several days living in the woods, fighting for his life. As though he could take his time, use up all of his energy. Peeta hoped that if nothing else, this would weaken him enough that someone else would kill him. Wouldn’t that be divine justice? Killed because he exhausted himself fucking another competitor. Peeta almost laughed, but held it in, afraid of starting to sob if he let a sound escape his lips. 

Cato was breathing faster now, his short, blunt nails digging into Peeta’s stomach, his hips snapping in a more irregular rhythm. It jostled Peeta, pushing his pants further down his legs, the waistband scraping over his gash. His left leg trembled and he teetered as it threatened to collapse out from under him completely. Cato didn’t seem concerned, holding him up and slamming into him without a pause. Peeta heaved painful breaths into his jacket, feeling more moisture from his eyes soaking into the material beneath his face. 

The hand on his back was heavy, Cato leaning a significant portion of his weight onto Peeta. It made it hard to breathe and forced his back to arch. He was dizzy, and the world felt hazy, unreal. It was almost easy to float away with his pain, to forget about the great injustice to which he was currently being subjected. But every time he tried, his thoughts and fears about Katniss came to the front of his mind. He loved her. He did. The thing that hurt worst was the demonstration that he wasn’t strong enough to protect her, not even to help her. He was going to die here, forever tarnished in the minds of all of Panem.

“Ahh, _fuck!_ ” groaned Cato, shuddering to a halt before thrusting sluggishly a few times more. Peeta could feel it as he came, painting his insides, could hear the change in the sounds as he moved. There were a few moments of silence where they stayed where they were, the sounds of the surroundings making a reappearance in Peeta’s ears. “That was good,” the bigger man said, laughing breathlessly, pulling out with an almost audible pop. Peeta immediately collapsed to the side, unable to hold himself up. “Awww, all tuckered out?” asked Cato, “You know, if you had just told me what I wanted to know, I wouldn’t have had to do that.”

“Don’t act like it was a hardship,” Peeta said, too tired and in too much pain to attempt to drag his clothes back into place. It wasn’t like his dignity could be saved now, not after what had just happened. Cato chuckled, and Peeta could hear him fixing his pants, the chinking of his belt as he refastened it. 

“So,” Cato said, leaning over him where Peeta lay half on his side and half on his stomach. His lips brushed Peeta’s ear and the smaller boy shuddered in revulsion, “You going to tell me where she is?”

“What else are you going to do to me if I don’t?” asked Peeta, “You’re going to kill me whether I tell you or not. You could try beating me until I talk, but I’m probably going to pass out any second now, and I can’t say anything if I’m unconscious. Plus there’s the fact that I really _don’t know_ where she is. You might recall that you lunged at me with a sword after I yelled for her to run.”

“May as well just get it over with then,” said Cato, taking Peeta’s head between both of his hands, and holding it there clearly ready to snap his neck, “Any last words?”

“Yeah,” said Peeta, fear rising up in a torrent in his chest, threatening to well over into his voice, “I--”

“Ow!” interrupted Cato, then, “Shit!” he let go of Peeta to block his face from some unknown assailant. He stood, wary, one leg on each side of his captive, trying to locate the enemy. Peeta peered up at him. Cato was holding his face, palm clasped over his eye, clearly someone had hit him with something from some distance. It couldn’t be Katniss, because she would have shot an arrow, which would have killed him on the spot. So this was someone with a non-deadly weapon with some interest in saving Peeta, or at least in distracting Cato. Why would they attack him if it was not with deadly force otherwise? Was this an ambush? “Who’s there?” demanded Cato, “Come out so I can kill you!”

Whoever it was was doing a good job of staying hidden. Peeta peered about, but couldn’t spot anyone. He laid his head back on the ground, intent on closing his eyes to come to peace with his fate when the changed angle of his head made something catch his eye. There was their mystery assailant, tiny, perched up in the trees. Far from reassuring, this made his blood seem to freeze in his veins. Remembering their training, the only person that could possibly be was the small girl from District 11. Rue. 

Had she seen? Nausea rose in him again at the thought of that beautiful, innocent little girl _watching_. He shifted slowly to cover himself better, body creaking in protest as he did. He watched her take aim, hitting Cato in the face again. This time, however, Cato had seen in which general direction the projectile had come from, whipping around to look for her. He wasn’t looking high enough though, probably expecting the person to be on the lower branches. As Peeta watched, Rue loaded up her slingshot again, this time pointing it away from Cato and shooting it into the lower leaves of a tree in the direction he was looking, rustling it.

“Don’t go anywhere,” said Cato smugly, clearly well aware of how much pain Peeta was in, then took off in that direction, looking for the person who had shot him in the face. Rue, however, was headed in another direction, so light and nimble that she barely disturbed the trees. There was silence around Peeta for a moment, as Cato’s footsteps faded and Rue vanished from sight. 

He hurt. Every part of him. His arms hurt from being twisted in his jacket, his palms from scraping in the dirt. His back from the beating he took and the arch he’d been forced to take. His lower body radiated pain and his left leg burned in agony. But he was alone. This was his chance. He needed to stay alive for now, needed to help Katniss. So he got up. He bit on his sleeve again as he dragged himself into a seated position to keep himself from screaming, untangling his jacket from his arms and pulling it back down his torso, the flesh of which was chilled from the cool air. He shuffled as best he could to the nearest tree trunk, using it to pull himself upright. He hung onto it as he pulled his pants back up, doing them up haphazardly with one hand as the other supported him.

He couldn’t have long. Cato would realise pretty quickly that he’d been misled. Peeta had to get away, had to hide. So he broke it into short, manageable steps, feeling the adrenaline making his heart pound. One foot in front of the other, hand gripping the trees for help. One foot. The other. He tried to make himself go faster, his knee wobbling worryingly but through sheer force of will pushing his speed into a brisk stagger. 

Peeta heard Cato’s roar of disbelief behind him just as he reached the river. Aware that Cato would certainly be moving a lot faster than he was, he threw himself into the water. The current here was relatively strong and he let himself float on his back, allowing it to carry him downstream. It wasn’t as though Cato couldn’t figure this out, but he certainly couldn’t force himself to walk anymore, and all he needed was distance. The feel of the cool water was soothing, and he sighed in relief, letting it fill his mouth and wash away the blood and dirt. Eventually, where the river became calm, he let himself float to the shore, and immediately began slathering himself in mud. Camouflage was really his speciality and soon he felt comfortable enough to lie back, to close his eyes and to rest. 

Cato passed by some time later, splashing and swearing, but did not see Peeta, hidden as he was. 

He drifted into a doze, waiting for one of two things. Death, or Katniss. The two probably weren't so dissimilar.


End file.
